


Father to Son

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Canon Compliant, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Elros and Elrond and their fathers - and their father's fathers - and their sons.





	Father to Son

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back bitches!!!!
> 
> My bingo square for 3/7 was "Maedhros mistreats Elrond and Elros ._." from the Silmarillion Fanon Inversion card! That was so open that I had trouble coming up with something and...it got out of control when I did! Also, that's a horrible trope I am glad to disspell here.
> 
> This fic was supposed to be up on Thursday but it's Sunday now and... well... this story got away from me. It was originally only going to be the last scene but then I had ideas for other scenes and... well it's done now, that's what matters! I hope I'll be able to catch up on B2MEM in the next few days, now that this long story's out of the way :) And I've been hoping to update Moonlight soon too!!
> 
> For those unversed in Silm lore: Nelyafinwe/Nelyo=Maedhros; Kanafinwe=Maglor; Elros=(Tar-)Minyatur.

"Are you ready to meet your brother?" Fëanáro asks.

Nelyo leaps to his feet, a grin on his face. "Yes, yes!" he exclaims. He grabs his father's hand and drags him toward the door before him. The midwife smiles as they pass, reaching out to ruffle Nelyo's hair.

Nerdanel is tired, but the spark of life within her shines ever brighter. At the sight of their second son in her arms, Fëanáro thinks he could burst with joy.

The baby wails; he came out of the womb singing and has scarcely quieted since. Fëanáro already knows what he shall be called.

"Papa, what's his name?" Nelyo asks, his eyes glued to the screaming, red-faced creature before him. "His hair's dark, like yours."

"Do you know why I called you Nelyafinwë?" Fëanáro inquires, kneeling down to match his eldest son's height.

"Nelya...finwë." He separates the two parts of his name carefully, dissecting their meaning. "Third...Finwë. Because I'm the third Finwë! You're second, and grandpapa's the first!" This was, of course, discounting Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, but Fëanáro had chosen Nelyo's name with that in mind.

"Excellent," Fëanáro says, patting Nelyo on the shoulder. He is so proud of him, so proud of his wife, so proud of the keening child in her arms.

"Will you call him fourth Finwë?" Nelyo guesses. "Canta...Cantafinwë?"

"No," Fëanáro says. Gently, he takes the still-crying child from his mother's embrace. She watches him, just as curious as Nelyo as to what her son will be called. "That honor shall go to your eldest son, Nelyafinwë. This child I name Kanafinwë, for his strong voice." He kisses the babe's forehead.

Nelyo giggles. "Is he always going to scream?"

"Mmm, no," Nerdanel muses softly. Fëanáro returns Kanafinwë to her arms, and she stares into his eyes deeply. Something passes between mother and son, and at last Kanafinwë's cries soften and fade, until he stares up at her in wonder. The hair on Fëanáro's arms stands on end: he can tell she is seeing into the child's future. "But he shall be a singer."

* * *

Eärendil crosses his arms, his face stony. He is a young man now, strong and tall, with his mother's grace and, Tuor knows, his father's resolve.

The ship is ready. Idril, having said her goodbyes, gives her son one last kiss and walks onboard, leaving father and son alone together.

Tuor clasps his hands behind his back, facing his son down. Eärendil is taller than him, almost to his mother's elven height. Living amongst the elves, Tuor is used to being the shortest, but he can still remember Eärendil running through the halls of Gondolin on tiny little legs.

"You should not treat your mother so harshly," he says mildly.

Eärendil's mouth twitches bitterly. He is not bothering to hide his resentment. He is of the age that adventure calls most strongly. At twenty-three, Tuor had braved the wilds of Beleriand and trespassed into the Hidden Kingdom. He understands why this moment is difficult for his son, nearly that same age.

"I do not see why I cannot accompany you," Eärendil says, evenly as he can.

Tuor sighs, his eyes drifting toward the sea. "You are too young to leave Middle-earth, my son."

"Too  _young_!" Eärendil exclaims. "The sea tugs at my heart the same as it does yours, Father! You know not what awaits you upon the waves. You cannot set foot upon the Blessed Land. Mother is an exile; you are a mortal! Shall you sail until you starve, or drown? I could help. I am a navigator—"

"As am I." Tuor cuts him off wearily. His son is too young to understand that he still has a life here. He is too young to understand that for Tuor and Idril, the uncertainty is part of the journey. He is too young to understand that Idril has seen glimpses of his future, as only an elven mother can, and that his destiny is to be greater than either of them—but not yet.

"I don't understand." Eärendil breaks down, his facade of anger cracking to reveal his grief. "Why are you leaving? You are still young, for a mortal man. Your life is not half over."

"I know that it is my time," Tuor says simply. "Ulmo has always guided my path, from the seashore to Gondolin to Sirion, and now to the West. Eärendil, your time will come too. Do you know why I gave you your father-name?"

"Yes," Eärendil says tiredly. "I am Eärendil Ardamírë. Lover of the sea, jewel of Arda. Ulmo prophesied to you that I would be a mariner, and mother saw I would be a great hero. Well—can I not be a hero  _now_?"

"Your time will come," Tuor repeats. He reaches out to embrace his son. Eärendil hesitates, then falls into his father's arms. Even at his height, Tuor is still the stronger of them, still supporting his son in all his fears and worries.

"I cannot promise I shall see you again," Tuor murmurs, "but I hope that I will. Your time  _will_  come, Eärendil. The sea shall call you stronger than it ever has before, and you will become the jewel of Arda. I know this."

"I love you," Eärendil whispers.

Tuor squeezes him, then lets go, misty-eyed. Idril is waiting aboard the ship, and the tug at his soul grows stronger by the minute.

"I love you, son," Tuor says, his voice gravelly with emotion. He touches Eärendil's shoulder for a moment longer, then turns away. "Farewell."

"Farewell," Eärendil echoes.

Tuor boards the ship, pausing to kiss his beloved wife before setting sail. He does not look back.

* * *

Maedhros dreams of them every time he sleeps. He has much to torment his waking hours, and more to haunt him in his slumber, but this...this is the worst.

Their faces. He never saw them up close, but he would recognize their faces anywhere. The brief glimpses of the terrified boys, drug away screaming their dead parents' names by the vengeful servants of a fallen master... Their father had slain Celegorm, yes, but that guilt did not extend to the children. And was it truly guilt, if Dior was defending his life and property?

 _Stolen_  property, Celegorm would have—and had—argued. But Celegorm is dead, and Maedhros is not so sure. The Oath compels the three remaining sons of Fëanor, but they are all broken by it now. Maglor shuts himself away, singing hymns of remorse and grief; Amras has scarcely spoken in the five hundred years since his twin burned at Losgar and is more silent now than ever before; Maedhros...

Maedhros dreams.

Two faces. Young. (They were only seven years old.) Terrified. Grieving. Furious.

He feels responsible. He searched, and searched, and searched, but he could not find them. Perhaps they had been found and hidden away by some survivors, but Maedhros's heart tells him otherwise.

They never knew what happened to their sister. Elwing simply vanished—a child of three, alone? She had certainly perished, though they knew not how. The thought that she lived and possessed the Silmaril was hard to believe—it was far more likely the jewel had been carried away by some retainer of Dior's, or lost to the unforgiving wilderness.

Maedhros knew exactly how Eluréd and Elurín died. The wild of Doriath took them, starved them and devoured them, no longer gentle and protective now that Melian and her girdle had fled back to Aman.

He dreams of them. He is the eldest of the Fëanorians. He is a leader, a warrior, a survivor, a murderer, a broken and scarred man in every way possible. But he is also a son, an heir, an elder brother.

A  _father_.

The word makes him physically shake with revulsion and guilt. It was his fault, his responsibility that those two children died alone in the forest. He should have found them, taken them in, atoned for his gruesome deeds. He cannot imagine them loving him as children ought to love their father, but he would have raised them all the same.

Maedhros never married. There were a multitude of reasons, not least of them being— (Ah, even thinking his name makes Maedhros smile bitterly.) He had never wanted children, despite Fëanáro's—Fëanor's—dreams of a grandson. When Curufin wed and produced Celebrimbor, he was once again proved their father's favorite. The child was named Curufinwë, third of his name, and not Cantafinwë; though to the chagrin of his father's line it was his amilessë, Tyelperinquar, that stuck.

Maedhros feels his father's disappointment in many ways. Now that he has acquired children—if only in his guilty mind—he is sure Fëanor's spirit is blazing ever more furiously in the Halls of Mandos.

The Oath is the only thing that drives Maedhros now. If it were not for his vow, he would long ago have succumbed to the horrors of Beleriand. The dead children, the sons he never had, are the ghosts in his dreams. Is it wrong that he has not been haunted by ghosts before this?

When Maedhros receives the message that Eluréd and Elurín's spirit lives on in Elwing, bearer of the Silmaril, he weeps burning tears. He puts off the Oath for as long as he can manage, but it drives him without forgiveness, and succumbs at last.

Maglor and Amras take up their arms, and Maedhros fits the sword that murdered Nimloth to his prosthetic.

He has killed the mother and the twins. Now it is time to complete the wicked slaughter, and destroy the sister of his sons.

* * *

"Will you be gone long, Daddy?" Elros asks, a pout on his face. "Can I come with you?"

Eärendil smiles and ruffles his son's hair. "I'll only be gone for a few weeks. I'll be back before your birthday."

"My birthday, too!" Elrond piped up. "You should take us with you for our birthday!"

Eärendil glanced at Elwing hopefully, but she shook her head with a smile stretched tightly across her lips. It is a sore spot between them: she can feel his heart drifting from his family to the lands beyond the sea, following his father's path. He understands why Tuor left, now. The sea-longing of his youth is nothing compared to what he feels now.

"Maybe someday," he says instead. He opens his arms, and his boys snuggle into his embrace.

How can he leave this? His heart softens, Ulmo's call fading as he is swept up in the warmth of paternal love. He smiles and meets Elwing's gaze again, telling her with only his eyes that he loves her and the twins and that he  _will_  return.

Elros wriggles free of his grip and tugs Elrond out as well. Soon they are gone, running off through the halls like he once had in Gondolin. Eärendil is struck suddenly with a wave of nostalgia and terror: could Sirion fall as Gondolin had? as Doriath had?

But no. The Silmaril is hidden away in Elwing's quarters; few people knows she is the lost princess of Menegroth. They are safe, as are their sons.

"Look after them," Eärendil murmurs, kissing his wife.

"Look after yourself," Elwing says, and she almost manages to mask her fear. He knows what she's thinking:  _Every time you're gone for longer. Every time you come back more distracted. Every time I worry you'll never return._

"I'll be back by the twins' birthday," he promises. "It's only a few weeks."

She squeezes his hand and lets him go. Eärendil loves her for that—she trusts him, even when she worries.

He  _will_  return.

(He does not.)

* * *

Maglor sees the ashen look on his brother's face—it is a punch to the gut to realize that he no longer has to pause to think  _which_  brother—and leaves immediately, riding into the forest around Sirion. He knows Maedhros blames himself for the loss of Dior's twins. Maglor will not let him do the same for Elwing's.

It has been less than a day since the awful Kinslaying, and Maglor welcomes the distraction his search provides. The children were seen in the arms of a nursemaid, wailing as she carried them from the blood and fire. The nursemaid was later found dead, but hope remains that the children yet live.

She took them to the forest paths, someone had whispered. Maglor chases that whisper, dreading whatever he may find.

Maglor takes two of his trusted warriors with him into the wood. His hand hovers above the hilt of his bloodstained sword as they walk silently through the brush, cautious lest he be ambushed by a vengeful survivor of the slaughter.

Children are easy to find, especially in a wood so tame as this. They are noisy, they are needy. Maglor finds them by a spring, laughing and splashing each other with water, oblivious to the destruction of their home and family.

For a moment, Maglor only watches from the shadow of the trees. He does not even know their names. He had only learned they existed the night before when the negotiations for the Silmaril fell apart and Elwing let slip she had twins. Maedhros had gone rigid then, doubtless remembering her lost brothers. Had she been remembering them, too? Maglor does not know.

He sees Eluréd and Elurín in the figures of these boys, blissfully ignorant of everything Maglor has done to hurt them. The Oath is a terrible burden to bear, and Maglor feels the guilt and shame weigh on him heavier now than it ever has before.

Could he leave them here, happy and alone? Could he return to Maedhros empty-handed? Could he remove himself from these children's lives and let them be free of his cursed doom?

"My lord?" one of his warriors murmurs. "What shall we do?"

No. He cannot abandon them to the wild as he had their uncles. He will never be a father to them; he has taken all family away from them. But he can provide for their needs and keep them safe.

"Take them back to the camp," Maglor orders softly.

He closes his eyes as they spring upon the children and bind them, but he cannot shut his ears to their screams.

* * *

It is the new star that signals the beginning of the end.

This brief period of respite had never felt wholly earned. There is still danger everywhere, and Maedhros is still haunted by the ghosts of the children he lost, but now he has living children to bother him in his waking hours. Only, Elrond and Elros are not children any longer, but gangly youths with burning resentment against their captors.

Well, it is not  _resentment_  exactly. It is guilt and anger and loneliness, as any adolescent feels at the dawning of their self-realization, compounded by the confusion brought by the unfortunate circumstances of their upbringing.

Maedhros and Maglor have discussed the new star privately. Maedhros is certain it is a Silmaril that shines in the West, but he is troubled by how it came to soar across the sky. Had Ulmo discovered it in the depths of the ocean and taken it back to Valinor? Or had Elwing, its bearer, somehow survived her plummet into the ocean—and if she had, how had she found the power to bear across the heavens?

Years pass; the boys hear the rumors. This only adds to their youthful frustrations. They push against the constraints placed upon them by their guardians, needling Maedhros and Maglor where it hurts the most.

"The jewel in the sky is our birthright," Elros argues one night after supper, picking at a pimple on his neck. (Maedhros is intrigued by the imperfections of their mortal blood. The twins look so elven from a distance, with pointed ears and tall bodies, but up close they smell and act like humans.)

Maglor scowls. "If it ever descends to the earth, it is  _our_  inheritance," he says, a warning in his voice. "The Silmarils are the creations of our father. We have suffered and killed to win it back."

"We know," Elrond quips. "You killed  _our_  parents." He leans forward, a fierce light in his eyes. (One day, Maedhros thinks, he shall grow into his wisdom. Now, it is too big for him; he does not know how to wield it.) "Would you kill  _us_ , if we took our mother's property?"

"The Oath yet sleeps," Maedhros interrupts softly, before Maglor can ruin the tenuous relationship he has built with the twins in a moment of bitter honesty. "Do not waken it with foolish words."

He casts a warning glance to his brother. Maglor takes the hint and stalks off into the night.

"I wish  _I_  could get my brother to fuck off just with a glare," Elrond mutters.

"Give it a thousand years or so," Maedhros says. "And mind your language."

"You're not my father." The casual jibe stings more than Elrond knows. After all he has endured, Maedhros is an expert at hiding his pain, but he feels each hurt like it was the first.

"And yet I am the one who clothes you, feeds you, and keeps you from getting yourselves killed," Maedhros points out.

"Maglor does most of that," Elros pipes up.

"He's the prettier one," Maedhros says, straight-faced. "He always gets the credit."

That startles a laugh out of Elros, and even Elrond's lips twitch. Maedhros's own amusement is of the ironic kind. Once, that had not been true; once, he had been Maitimo, the handsome elder brother, but no longer. Now he is scarred and hideous, and the Light that shines from Maglor is more pure than the broken brilliance from Maedhros' shattered visage.

"One day you'll have to let us go our own way," Elrond says. "One day we'll be all grown, and you can't stop us from chasing down the Silmaril."

Maedhros looks at him and raises the fork he currently has attached to the prosthetic at the end of his arm. "Do you think I got this, and all my scars, from lying around and doing nothing?" he queries. "No, don't answer. It was hypothetical. I had six brothers, once. Now I have one. They all perished in that same goal, and we have far more right to the Silmaril than you. Take care to cherish the family you have before you lose them in pursuit of an unachievable goal."

"And do you count yourself as our family?" Elros asks. He just his chin out proudly.

Maedhros shrugs. "I have lost every person I care for, save Maglor. I don't let myself get attached any longer." He taps the fork-prosthetic to his knee. "Well, except for literal attachments."

It's a lie, and he knows it, and he knows the twins know it too. He has always cared for them, just as much as Maglor. They remind him of Eluréd and Elurín, the children he lost before ever gaining them. They remind him of Amrod and Amras, the children he should have protected better than he did.

Ever since meeting little Kanafinwë, Maedhros has been an older brother. The  _oldest_  brother. He has carried more infants in his arms, babysat more screaming toddlers in his "free" time, put an end to more sibling arguments, than perhaps any other person alive. He has certainly seen more of the children in his care perish than anyone else. He does not wish to see the same happen to the boys before him.

"You can't replace our parents," Elros says. "I know you feel bad for what you did to them. Well, you should. What you're doing for us, it's out of obligation, not love. We don't have to be grateful."

"Have it your way." Maedhros rises and makes to catch up with Maglor. At least  _he_ had been spared the twins' ire; he was the one who cared more openly. Maedhros was fine with letting Elrond and Elros project their anger onto him, if it meant sparing his little brother.

"Yeah. We will." Elros huffs. Elrond stays silent, but Maedhros can feel his watchful glare.

He hopes that when they do go their own way, it will not be with so much hatred in their hearts. Maedhros loves them, but he does not expect their love in return. He only wants them to be happy and wise, given time.

And he does not want them chasing the Silmaril.

* * *

Minyatur holds his son in his arms with a wonder he cannot comprehend. He has lived for over a hundred years, and this is the first time he has felt such a powerful emotion. This is love unconditional, love eternal.

He knows already what he shall call his child: Vardamir, for he is a jewel that is brighter than the stars of Varda, brighter than the Silmaril traversing the sky upon his father's brow. Vardamir, Vardamir! The name is beautiful. Minyatur wants to cry it to the heavens, but he has heralds for that. As it is he whispers it again and again while his wife sleeps. Vardamir sighs in his arms, deep in his own slumber.

Was this how Eärendil felt as he had held him and his twin for the first time? Minyatur does not know. Even with his half-elven memory stretching back to his childhood, he struggles to form an image of his blood-parents. He remembers missing his father when he left, and he can faintly recall the sound of his mother's lullabies, but that and the sea-smell of Sirion is all he knows of them.

Here in Númenor, such tragedies to separate parents from children will not happen. Vardamir is safe in his arms.

The truth is, Minyatur can summon little love for his own father. He cannot feel the bond between parent and child that he so strongly knows now with his own son. He knew Eärendil only as a captain in the Host of the Valar. He was too busy to reunite with his sons until the War of Wrath had nearly ended; even then, the encounter was awkward and brief. They spoke only once afterward, when Eärendil commended his choice of mortality. Minyatur knows Elrond communicated with their father more, but that time was tumultuous for them all.

No, Minyatur has another father—two, in fact, and he knows for a certainty that neither of them knew the feeling of holding him as an infant. Maedhros and Maglor were murderers, kidnappers, thieves, and fiends, with only stolen children to call their own. But Minyatur loved them anyway. They were all he and his brother had, and he knows that the love they had for him and Elrond was painfully strong.

That fatherly love is broken now: Maedhros is fallen into fire, and Maglor is lost. Eärendil flies in the sky with their father's perfect jewel strapped to his forehead, out of reach.

Minyatur is the son of those who held the Silmarils. He is removed from their curse, and yet close enough to nearly touch it. He has witnessed the destruction they have caused, and he finds their glory hollow.

Varadmir yawns, and Minyatur knows that he holds all the glory of the sky in his arms.

* * *

"Papa," says a soft voice from the doorway, "are you busy?"

Elrond turns to see one of his young sons watching him with wide and anxious eyes. He sets down his quill; his work can wait. "No," he says. "Come in, Elrohir."

"Elladan," the child says wearily.

Elrond winces. "Sorry, Elladan," he apologizes. "I know how that feels."

Elladan walks through the door and stands before his father with his arms crossed. Elrond opens his arms to lift his child onto his lap, but Elladan doesn't move.

"Is something the matter?" he asks.

Elladan frowns. "Mama was telling us about the First Age," he says. "She said that your brother became a man."

"Yes," Elrond says slowly, "that is true." Not a day passes where he does not think of Elros, now dead many centuries, but any doubts about his own choice are long since assuaged. Had he not chosen as he did, he would not have married Celebrían or fathered his sons, and he does not downplay the importance of his role in the wars of the Second Age.

"How did that happen?" Elladan asks, frightened. "I don't want to become a man."

"Oh, child," Elrond sighs. "Come here." This time Elladan falls gratefully into his father's arms, and Elrond rocks him gently. "It was not an easy choice for either of us. The Valar offered us the chance to choose our own destinies. I chose to be counted among the elves, and he chose to be counted among men. His children and their children, all of them were counted among men as well."

"So me'n'Elrohir will be elves?" Elladan says hopefully.

"Perhaps," Elrond says. "When I chose, I was not much older than you. I did not think of having my own children. I think you shall be counted as elves, unless you wish otherwise...and then we may have to ask the Valar."

"Good." Elladan relaxes. "I don't wanna leave Elrohir."

"Did Elrohir say anything?" Elrond chooses his words carefully. He does not want to plant seeds of doubt in his son's mind. It had been a mixed blessing when Celebrían birthed twins: his sons are a constant reminder of what he has lost, but he would not trade them for the world.

"No," Elladan says. "I don't think he thought about it." He pauses. "Papa, she also said that your Mama and Papa didn't raise you."

Elrond is faintly surprised that his child did not know his history, but he supposes that children are not born with the Quenta Silmarillion imprinted in their minds. They must learn at some point, when they are ready. Now is that time, for Elladan, at least.

"Yes, that is also true," he agrees. "My parents were involved in a great war against evil. We... Elros and I, we were separated from them." He can explain the intricacies of the War of Wrath, of the Third Kinslaying, of the Silmarils and the Star of Eärendil, at some other point.

"How?" Elladan clutches at his arm. "Can it happen to us?"

"No, no," Elrond assures him, though it pains him to think that he might fail his promise if some unforeseen evil falls upon Middle-earth again. "There is no war now. No fighting. Your mother and I will always be here for you."

"Who was fighting? Why?" Elladan asks.

Elrond thinks for a moment before answering. This is...complicated. "There was a jewel," he says slowly, "a very powerful jewel, strong with the magic of the Valar. It was stolen by the evil ones from an elf named Fëanor. He and his sons swore to regain it, but most of them perished before they could."

This is a gross simplification of such complicated events, but Elrond is doing his best. Elladan is only six, the same age to the day that he had been at the time of the Third Kinslaying, and it had been hard enough for him to understand when it was happening to him. He does not need to place that burden upon his son now.

"There is a great tale of how the jewel was regained," he continues, "the greatest love story of the First Age. An elf and a man stole it from the Evil One, and then were wed. They were Beren and Lúthien, the grandparents to my own mother, Elwing."

Elladan grins. "Mama told us about them! And about Idril and Tuor!"

"Yes, they are my grandparents on my father's side," Elrond says. "Another grand romance. I have not the time to tell the story in full now, but I will someday. My mother had kept this jewel safe, for it was so precious that many hunted for it. This is how the war began."

"Then the evil things tried to take it back?" Elladan guesses.

"No," Elrond says. "It was other elves, the sons of Fëanor, who tried to steal it. There was a terrible battle. My father was out at sea and did not know it was happening. My mother escaped, but everyone believed she was dead."

"Those elves were bad!" Elladan exclaims. "Elves don't fight each other."

Elrond sighs. "They were not all bad. Their leaders, the oldest sons of Fëanor, they felt very guilty. They discovered Elros and I, and took care of us until we were older."

"But it was their fault." Elladan frowns.

Elves have excellent memories. Elrond's mind stretches back to those long-ago days, thousands of years past, and remembers feeling the same way. It is so distant that it feels alien to him now, but he remembers.

"Yes," he agrees. "It was. But they atoned as best they could. There are stories that we were mistreated at their hands, but it was never so. Maglor was like a second father to us. Maedhros was not so open, but he saved our lives many a time when we were being reckless and young. He earned that title as well. They loved us, as best they could."

Elladan squirms free from his arms. "This story is too sad," he proclaims. "I'm gonna ask Mama to tell the story of Beren and Lúthien!"

"She will do so gladly," Elrond says, smiling as his son scampers away. One day, his boys will appreciate the complexities of fatherhood, but he is happy now for their simple joys. He is glad to give them the stability he never had.

Elrond turns back to his papers and lifts his quill to write the next sentence in his history of the First Age. This is for his fathers, Eärendil and Maglor and Maedhros, and everyone else who sired him, from Tuor to Fëanor. This is for his sons, that they might learn their parentage.

This is for him, as a father and a son.

**Author's Note:**

> I went down so many rabbit holes researching for this fic, making sure I got the details right. Here's a few things I made up: Tolkien Gateway says that T(y)elperinquar is Celebrimbor’s father name but doesn’t provide a source, so I changed it to his mother name because I like the idea of three generations of Curufinwës. And it isn’t canon that Maedhros is the one who killed Nimloth, but I thought it was too ironic to pass up.  
> ETA 9/1/19: For more of my ideas about the Second Kinslaying, check out the 4th chapter of [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398906/)!
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/), where I've spent the past few days crying about the Sons of Feanor and the peredhel. If you liked this fic, I'm sure you'll enjoy that :)


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